Mind Over Time
by pale-jonquil
Summary: England says he came to see her during the Second World War because he missed her. But Europe is dying around them, and that reason isn't good enough. /Warning for a bit of dub-con./


_This is wrong,_ Belgium thinks. _So, so wrong._

She first thought this shortly after he arrived at her makeshift, temporary base.

He was smiling.

"What are you doing here?" she asks as she rises from the table, a wary, confused look on her face. One of the documents she's been working on flutters to the floor.

England blinks once, twice, and his smile falters.

"Come now, love," he says, holding out his arms to her, neatly giving them the chance to start over. "What sort of welcome is that?"

"I'm serious." She coldly looks him up and down as though she doesn't know him, as though she doesn't _want_ to know him. "Answer me — what are you doing here?"

The smile disappears from his face completely, and she couldn't be more relieved.

* * *

It's wrong for him to even be here at all, she thinks.

He says he came because he missed her. That's the only reason he gives her, and it's not good enough.

* * *

Later that night, he grabs her hand and holds a finger to his lips. _Shh._

He drags her into an empty room and gently shuts the door behind them. The room is dark, and he fumbles as he presses her against the nearest wall and claims her lips with his own.

She makes a scandalized noise, moans angrily in protest as his tongue slips into her mouth. Her spine snaps, goes rigid, and she balls her hands into fists against his chest. He smells of gunpowder and petrol; her stomach sourly churns, much as it did earlier at the sight of his easy smile.

He pulls away, covers her mouth with his hand, lifts a finger up to his lips.

_Shh,_ he whispers into her ear. _You mustn't make a sound, my love, lest we are found out._

As he brings his lips back to hers, his hands drop down to her unbuckle her belt. Kneeling, he drags her trousers and knickers down her legs before kissing and licking at the most sensitive part of her, his long, thin fingers ghosting over her thighs.

She trembles, but not from any pleasure — the room is chilly, and she doesn't want this. She doesn't want him here. She doesn't want _him, _even as she lays a hand on his head and runs her fingers through his hair.

His tongue continues lapping at her as he reaches down and removes her boots and socks, eventually pulling her trousers and knickers off completely. Standing, he unbuckles his belt and quickly rids himself of his own trousers and underwear. He grabs her ass and lifts her up in his arms, pinning her against the wall.

And — well — there's really nothing for her to do except wrap her legs around him, is there?

When he enters her, she feels nothing except a vaguely exhausted notion of counting the seconds until it's all over. He all but collapses against her, his strong body as useless as jelly while he settles completely into her, and she hopes he doesn't notice her wince.

_This is wrong,_ she thinks. But then he sighs out a rattling breath, brings a hand up to tangle in her hair, and it hits her, somehow, hard and fast — it pierces her heart and makes a lump rise in her throat. He gently sighs out her name, and it sounds wondrous, as though he'd found a precious stone.

And it's so, so wrong, the way her body eventually begins to respond to his as he thrusts into her. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to feel guilty as he rests his hand on her belly, the tip of his thumb rubbing back and forth against her clit — tries to block out the electric tendrils of pleasure coursing through her. She tries not to want more, tries not to buck her hips against him, and fails.

_Shh,_ he reminds her.

And, _God,_ how she loves him, how she's missed him. She clutches him to her, digs her fingernails into the dips of his shoulder blades just to know he's real, and vows to never let him go, never ever _ever,_ war or no war.

But it's not how it should be. It should be the warm, gentle caresses she's used to. It should be the weight of laced fingers and the harmony of giggles under the sheets, bargaining with breaths and bonds and the settling of souls. He loves her beyond reason, beyond everything, and he spoils her. And even when it doesn't last hours upon hours, when it's short but still incredibly, exquisitely sweet, it's not anything like this.

This is needy and desperate. This is dirtier than she is after a week without bathing, dirtier than the hand he clamps over her mouth.

Because it's wrong to steal moments like this when she buried two children only an hour before he arrived — one died from starvation, the other from a bullet to the head. Neither she nor England nor their people can afford these kinds of stolen moments. Not when the war's made widows of her women, turned her children into orphans, and torn her family apart.

_Why was he smiling earlier?_ she wonders through the haze of pleasure, through the rupture of her conscience. What have any of them to smile about now? Will they ever have reason to smile again? War is raging all around them and Europe is dying. Surely he must know that, must have seen it for himself? Everything about her aches — her body, her mind, and especially her heart, which has never felt heavier than it does now.

England sucks at a patch of skin on her neck, trails his tongue over her shuddering pulse, and the shame washes over her.

_Stop,_ she brokenly whispers, too softly for him to hear, and she's never loved him more than in this strange, sorrowful moment.

When it's over, she slumps against him, clings to him like a lost child, and quietly weeps against his shoulder.

_Shh,_ he whispers, stroking her hair.


End file.
